My Father Taught Me
by Every Shade of Blue
Summary: All of the things Lee Adama learned from his father over the course of his life, and all of the things that his father never quite understood about him.


A/N: I realize this presents mostly a rather pessimistic view of the relationship between Bill and Lee Adama. I know there are some good things that happen between them over the course of the show, but none of them are mentioned here, because, to be honest, they never really seemed to make as much progress in their relationship as I wished they would. So I wish I could say that this fic doesn't really represent my overall view of how things turn out between the two of them, but...

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**My Father Taught Me**

I was three when my father taught me that my brother always came before I did. He probably never knew I always remembered what he said to me when he left to go back to his ship: "Look after your brother." I spent the next twenty-one years doing exactly that, because most of the time, there was no one else around to do it for me.

(He never saw how confused I was when I wondered how I was supposed to take care of my little brother when I still so desperately needed someone to take care of me.)

I was four when my father taught me that real men never let anyone see how they feel. I had fallen out of the old apple tree in our backyard, and my broken arm hurt like nothing I'd ever imagined. He only spoke to me once during the whole drive to the hospital: "Don't cry now. Men don't cry."

(He never saw how hard it was to hold back the tears when the slightest bump of the car on the rough road sent fire through an arm that was broken so badly I was afraid to look at it.)

I was five when my father taught me that my brother was a child, and I was a legacy. That was the year I realized that all he ever talked about was how one day, I'd be just like him. I knew I would be a pilot one day. I thought I was all right with that. It took me a long time to realize that I was wrong.

(He never saw how badly I wanted him to laugh and play with me the way he did with my brother, instead of quizzing me with pictures of the ships I'd fly one day.)

I was seven when my father taught me that son meant soldier. I still can't believe it took me two whole years to realize that a pilot is an officer as well. That was the year I joined my first sports team, and all I got from dad was a lecture about the importance of discipline.

(He never saw how disappointed I was when all of the lectures turned out to be more important to him than coming to any of my games.)

I was eight when my father taught me that the best way to solve your problems is to run away from them. I still remember the bag he carried when he walked out of the house for the last time. I remember wondering how it was possible that he could fit his entire life in that bag. I only realized later that it was because he hadn't bothered to save any room for us.

(He never saw the long afternoons I spent in the front yard or staring out the front windows, hoping and praying that he'd come walking back in as though he'd never left.)

I was eleven when my father taught me that it's easier to stand back and look at the whole wall than it is to look closely and see the cracks. The few times a year we saw him, he always seemed to think that my mother, my brother, and I were still a happy family.

(He never saw the way the empty bottle Mom threw at me right after finishing off the last few shots left a bruise on my ribs that hurt when I moved too much for a whole week afterwards.)

I was fourteen when my father taught me that I wasn't allowed to make mistakes. My brother had been sick for the week leading up to the last test of the year in my hardest class. I got a C because I hadn't studied enough, and he yelled at me for risking my chances of getting into the Academy after high school.

(He never saw how exhausted I was from staying up all night after my brother finally fell asleep, desperately trying to memorize just enough material to scrape that passing grade.)

I was seventeen when my father taught me that my opinions didn't matter if they weren't the same as his opinions. That was when I realized that he had never actually listened to me; it just hurt more now that I was old enough to really want him to.

(He never saw the way I started to keep all of my thoughts inside until it seemed like no one but my brother knew the real me, because if my own father didn't care, why would anyone else?)

I was nineteen when my father taught me that living up to his reputation was the most important thing I could do. Everyone at the Academy knew the name Adama. Every person who heard it was sure to ask about Dad. Very few of them ever asked about me.

(He never saw that just living up to his legacy wasn't enough, because every teacher I ever had seemed to expect me to surpass it instead.)

I was twenty-one when my father taught me that his plans for my life – and for my brother's – were more important than ours. I wasn't so sure anymore that I really wanted to be a soldier, and I was almost certain that my brother shouldn't be. But thanks to Dad, Zak followed me to the Academy anyway.

(He never saw how uncomfortable I felt wearing my new uniform, almost like a kid in an adult's clothing that just never quite fit the way it should.)

I was twenty-four when my father taught me that people can't be counted on to take responsibility for their mistakes. When we stood across from each other at the funeral, my little brother's coffin filling the space between us, I saw sadness in his eyes – but I never saw regret. And when I confronted him afterward, the words spilling out of my mouth before I knew I wanted to say them, I couldn't help feeling satisfied when I saw the hurt in his face. It was nothing compared to the pain of the gaping hole in my heart.

(He never saw the way I went home and cried over the box of old sketches and mechanical notations that meant my brother could have been an amazing engineer rather than a mediocre pilot.)

I was twenty-five when my father taught me that all the accomplishments in the world couldn't make him proud of me. We hadn't talked since the funeral, but I still thought he would show up when I earned such an early promotion to Captain. My CO even invited him to the ceremony. He didn't come.

(He never saw how long I spent trying to convince myself that I hadn't really wanted him there anyway; in the end, I almost believed it.)

I was twenty-six when my father taught me that words aren't the same as actions. What he said was, "If it were you, we'd never leave." But I guess he didn't really mean it, because after I did the only thing I could think of to stop Colonel Tigh from ordering his men to shoot the president, I think my father would gladly have put me out an airlock. His mouth was silent – but his eyes said he'd never look at me the same way again.

(He never saw that the real reason I did what I did wasn't to spite him or to choose the president over him, but because choosing orders over my conscience would have been the nightmare of the Olympic Carrier all over again.)

I was twenty-seven when my father taught me that continuing to live is more important than being able to live with yourself. When Kara told me that he'd ordered her to assassinate Admiral Cain, I couldn't make myself believe it – until I heard the words from his own mouth. Somehow, his dead certainty in that moment scared me more than facing a whole squadron of Cylon raiders.

(He never saw that fear, or how easy it made the decision to let go of that deadly little pinhole in my flight suit and let the last of my air bleed away.)

I was twenty-nine when my father taught me that trying to do what's right is a good way to lose everything. As much as I despised Gaius Baltar, I still knew what everyone else seemed to be forgetting: that he still deserved a fair trial. I'd already lost Kara; joining Baltar's defense lost me everything else. Dad and I were never much good at talking, but somehow, we always seemed to know what words would hurt each other the most.

(He never saw how badly it broke my heart to take off my wings and throw them down on his desk, or how much worse it became when he tossed them into a drawer as though they'd never meant anything to either of us.)

I was thirty when my father taught me that I was the least important of all the people he loved. Laura Roslin, Kara Thrace, Saul Tigh… I'd watched him choose each of them over me so many times. Laura was the woman he loved, Kara was his adopted daughter, Tigh was his best friend. I was just the son he probably never really wanted to happen in the first place. After a while, it stopped hurting as much as it had at first. I'd gotten too used to the ache. When he left for the last time, I knew I'd probably never see him again, and I told him I understood. I understood that he would always choose me last.

(He never saw how badly I'd always wished that, just one time, he'd told me he loved me.)

I was forty-seven when my father taught me that maybe he'd always cared a bit more than I thought. It took me seventeen years to find the cabin he'd built, and by then it was almost too late. He said he'd been waiting for me; Laura and Kara had told him I'd be coming. I had just enough time to say goodbye.

(He never saw the way I cried when I found the old, tarnished dog tags that he'd been wearing ever since I'd taken them off almost eighteen years before.)

I was seventy-two when my father taught me that the ones who love us the most never really leave us. I knew I was dying, but I didn't know what, if anything, would happen next. Until Dad came. I was old and tired, and the last thing I remember was falling asleep – and then he was there, and I suddenly realized that I felt like a kid again.

(He saw how glad I was to see him again, and he held me while the world I was leaving behind slowly faded away.)

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[See, I gave it a happy-ish ending. I haven't _completely_ given up on them.]


End file.
